


no one's getting out

by clankclankboom (dytabytes)



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, M/M, MTMTE, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dytabytes/pseuds/clankclankboom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pharma is short on his tcog quota and Tarn is less than impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no one's getting out

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday present for my friend Dirge.

"You're short."

Pharma shifts his weight from one leg to the other, uncomfortable.

"We've been getting fewer patients at the clinic! I can make it up to you next cycle-"

He's cut off when Tarn grabs him by the throat, lifting him off the ground like so many tons of scrap.

"Not good enough, Pharma." The Decepticon's grasp tightens around his throat, leaving him gasping for air, scrabbling weakly at Tarn's fingers. 

"P-Please..."

"I gave you a quota because I had certain _expectations_ of you." Throat cabling creaks painfully, and alarms are popping up all over Pharma's HUD as Tarn stares down his nasal ridge at Pharma's desperate expression. Pharma's vision starts to darken and a high, keening crackle excapes his vocalizer.

"But perhaps you can make it up to me. Just this once."

Pharma hits the ground in a crumpled heap, fuelpump beating doubletime as he clutches at his throat. He coughs weakly, then starts babbling his gratitude as he starts to stand.

"Thank you! Thank you, Tarn. I'll make quota next time for sure! I'll- I'll overshoot it! I-"

His optics flare in shock when Tarn grabs the back of his head, pushes him back down to his knees.

"You'll do that, yes. But you'll also start making up the difference _now_."

The bottom falls out of Pharma's spark chamber when the unique sound of an interface panel clicking open registers in his audials.

"Ah..." He tries to back away, but Tarn's hand is firm on the back of his head. The dents in his throat throb dully, reminding him what disobedience to the leader of the DJD gets him.

"Yes. Okay. Um."

"Get on with it. I've got duties to attend to, and your form is not so pleasing that I wish to stare at it all cycle."

Pharma swallows, reaches out with faltering hands to fumble Tarn's panel open. The mech's spike juts out, proud and tall and will that even fit in his mouth?

It will have to, Pharma thinks as he licks hesitantly at the tip. It will have to, or Tarn will _make_ it. 

"More." Tarn growls, and Pharma opens his mouth a bit wider, optics flicking up at the mech above him as he takes the spike into his mouth. His vents cycle in short, sharp bursts as he tries hard not to empty his fuel tanks. 

Survival, he tells himself. Stop thinking about how disgusting you feel for doing this and remember that it's this or the scrap heap for you.

But it's hard to keep his attention on that when he's so viscerally being reminded of how low he's fallen. Transfluid has started oozing from Tarn's spike, coating Pharma's tongue. It's filthy, sickly sweet before it sours into a bitter aftertaste, as if simply passing through the Decepticon's body has tainted it somehow.

And all the while, Tarn has been _purring_ , hand squeezing Pharma's helm. His fingers tighten even now as he notices Pharma's focus slipping. 

"Pay attention, Pharma. If you don't do a good job, I might be liable to count this against you, instead of in your favor."

A jolt of fear shivers through Pharma's struts, and he redoubles his efforts. He hasn't had much experience with this... procedure, before, but if he flicked his tongue and applied a bit more pressure...?

Tarn's engine starts to rumble in that smug, contented way again, so obviously something about this was pleasing. And- _oh_.

It takes all of Pharma's self-control to keep from gagging when Tarn's hips buck forward, jamming his spike into the back of his throat. A hysterical giggle bubbles up in the back of his processor -- whatever would First Aid think if he were asked to treat _that_ dent -- but he tamps it down, attention on bracing his hands against Tarn's hips and moving with the mech's thrusts, rather than against them.

By now, his knees have started to ache, and it feels like he's been crouching here for vorns. Surely he's suffered enough of this indignity by now? If he could only get Tarn to _overload_ , then this could be done. 

That thought in mind, Pharma offlines his optics before taking Tarns' entire length into his mouth and swallowing hard around it.

His reward is a yank at his helm and a low groan from Tarn, who tips his hips in order to somehow push _more_ of himself past Pharma's lips and into the hot, tight suction. The mech's voice sends shocking vibrations through Pharma's frame as he ruts into his mouth, making the jet squirm. He can feel his frame rapidly heating up, spark fluttering wildly. How was this even possible? He wasn't... He couldn't possibly--?!

Then Tarn roars and pulls out. Relief is shortlived for Pharma, who flinches when the Decepticon shoots his transfluid onto him in several long spurts. It's all he can do to hold relatively steady and accept the added humiliation of having this _slime_ splattered across his faceplates. 

When it seems that Tarn has finished, Pharma sits back on his heels and raises a hand to wipe his face off.

"Ah." Tarn grabs his wrist, smile evident in his voice, if not on his face. "No, I think I like you better looking like that."

Pharma's spark flutters harder, pulsing in his chest. What is _wrong_ with him? How is this experience inducing arousal?

The answer comes when Tarn chuckles, strokes his finger down Pharma's cheek to smear the silvery fluid there. "Ah yes. I forgot."

And Pharma's world shatters when the mech whispers, "You may overload now."

He's certain that he screams as he collapses, vision going white as his spark _explodes_ within him. 

When he onlines again, the first thing that he knows is that his face itches. The next is that there's a good dozen messages popping up through the comm lines -- Ambulon is wondering where he is. For good reason too, Pharma's been out here far longer than he'd expected to be.

He scratches at his cheek, flaking off dried transfluid with a grimace, and stands. A datapad clatters on the ground from where it had been carelessly tossed by his feet. Pharma picks it up with shaking hands. The message it holds is brutally short.

"Good job. Quota stays the same. Date and location to come later." 

So that's it. All that humiliation just to keep the status quo.

Pharma cycles his vents, then tucks the datapad into a subspace pocket so that he can transform and fly back. 

He's not offlined. That's good enough.


End file.
